


The truth about your parents

by Rosemary_Dandelion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (I never wanted to use that tag), F/M, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Reichenbach, Tags Contain Spoilers, that's why I don't like tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosemary_Dandelion/pseuds/Rosemary_Dandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Hamish finally gets to know how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson became his Daddies...</p><p>Written after the end of Season 2, therefore S3 spoiler free. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _This is my first fanfic in the Sherlock fandom - and my very first fic in English. As it is not my native language, please be kind with me._

The doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson, who had just sat down for her afternoon tea, went to open it. Outside stood little Hamish, coming home from school, and he was crying.

“Is Daddy home?” he sobbed.

“No, dear,” Mrs Hudson replied softly.

“Is Dad, then?” he asked, and Mrs Hudson knew from the look on his face that he already knew his Dad wasn’t home either.

“Neither of them is home, dear,” she repeated. “Just come on in, would you like some tea?”

Hamish sniveled and entered. Mrs Hudson led him to her living room, where the teapot sat steaming on a small table. A plate of cucumber sandwiches stood nearby. Mrs Hudson liked to keep to traditions. Hamish sat down on the sofa and she poured him some tea and handed him the sandwich plate. I am not their housekeeper, she muttered to herself, but obviously I have become their Nanny.

Hamish took a sandwich but did not eat. Tears were still running down his cheeks.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Mrs Hudson asked, sitting down beside him. “Did anything bad happen at school today?”

He nodded. “The other kids hit me. They said, one cannot have two Daddies. They said, it weren’t possible.”

Mrs Hudson was glad that Sherlock wasn’t there. Correcting the boy right now would have made him only more miserable, she thought.

“But I said I don’t have two Daddies,” Hamish went on. “I said I have a Daddy and a Dad. But they were still laughing at me. And then they punched me and threw me in the mud.” He was sobbing terribly. Mrs Hudson laid her arm around him.

“Of course you can have two Daddies, you know,” she said. “There’s all sorts round here. You know little Elizabeth and William living next door at Mrs Turner’s? They’ve got two daddies, too. And the most important thing is that your fathers love you. And I know they do.”

“But they said everyone has a father and a mother,” the boy told her. “A man and a woman. They said it was impossible that you just found me on the doorsteps. They said that happens only in books.”

Mrs Hudson sighed. She knew she had to tell him. She was deeply convinced that this should be his fathers’ task, but they had left early this morning for some place in Scotland, investigating a new _Case –_ and possibly glad having some time to themselves. Nobody knew when they were coming back. But their boy was sitting on her sofa, crying and confused, so she decided to tell him the truth, as far as she knew it.

***

Though it was almost six years ago Mrs Hudson remembered the day as if it was only yesterday. She had just got up when the doorbell rang. In her dressing gown she went to the door, wondering who would come to visit this early in the morning. It had not happened often in the past months. There weren’t many who didn’t know…

But when she opened the door she saw nobody. Maybe she had just imagined the ringing, maybe she had just wished that someone was that anxious to speak to Sherlock and John that they could not wait until the sun had risen properly. She was about to close the door, when she looked down, and then she saw it. A bundle lying on the doorstep. She bent down to examine it. It was a baby, wrapped in a blanket, asleep. She got up again and looked around, but she didn’t see anyone. She thought she saw a shadow of someone standing on the other side of the street, but she was not sure. She shouted out but the shadow didn’t move. So she knelt down again, took the baby up and brought it into her flat.

She never had had a baby. Her husband had not been fond of kids, and when she finally had got rid of him it was too late. That was probably why she had adopted the boys from upstairs as her sons. Well, son and son-in-law, so to speak. But she had absolutely no experience in how to deal with babies. For the moment the little thing was asleep, and she hoped it would be sleeping on for a while.

She had no idea why someone would have left a baby on her doorstep. Was it another case? Had it been someone who didn’t know that Sherlock and John didn’t live here anymore? What was she to do? Maybe she should call the police. No, not just the police. Next to her phone there was the little piece of paper on which she kept the most important numbers. Sherlock’s, of course, though she knew she would never dial it again. John’s. And the good looking inspector’s. Maybe she should call him, he would know what to do. Not for the first time in months she wished that John was there.

Just in that moment the baby started to cry. She hurried back to the living room, lifted it up and tried to calm it humming a lullaby her mother had always sung to her. While she was carrying it across the room, something slipped out of the folds of the blanket and fell onto the floor. A letter.

***

The ringing of his mobile phone startled him out of unpleasant dreams. As always he had been too late. As always he had seen him falling down the roof and had not been able to stop him. His heart was racing when he sat up in his bed. Where was he? The phone rang again, and then he knew at least that he was at home. What time was it? It was still dark outside. Who on earth was calling him this early in the morning? He picked up the phone from the bedside table. He felt the engravings under his fingers. _Harry Watson. From Clara._ He had never been fond of his sister. Neither of her ex. And yet he kept her old phone. He was sentimental about it as it reminded him of the first day he had met Sherlock and the deductions he had made of it.

John suppressed a yawning, tried to collect his thoughts and answered his phone. The familiar voice of Mrs Hudson asked him to come immediately to 221B Baker Street. He hadn’t been there for months, not since… He was not sure he could stand it, but Mrs Hudson sounded really pressing. So he got up, shaved and dressed and called a cab.

The grey twilight before dawn filled the sky when he arrived. Apparantly Mrs Hudson had waited for him, because she opened the door before he could even ring the bell. “John, dear. Good to see you.” She gave him a warm hug and ushered him inside. It was a strange feeling to be back again, as if he had never been away. But Sherlock’s absence was perceptible from every corner of the house. He cleared his throat as if to say something but remained silent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's been a long time since I started that story - but only now I've found the time to continue. I hope you enjoy my new little chapter._

She was hiding in the entrance of the house opposite 221B Baker Street, the chill of the cold November morning creeping all over her body. Or was she becoming sentimental after all? It’s for the best, she tried to calm herself, it’s all for the best. But she could not help it, she was shaking and with trembling hands she pulled her coat firmly around her and tried not to move. On the other side of the street the door opened. It was the funny old lady, Sherlock’s kind of surrogate mother. For a moment she doubted about her decision. It wasn’t too late yet. She could still run across the street and take her baby with her. But the moment passed. It was for the best. It was all for the best.

“Hello?” the lady shouted, looking straight in her direction. She made no move, and after a few seconds she saw the woman bending down and taking the baby inside. She shivered as the door closed behind them. She remained there for another couple of minutes, staring at the numbers and the letter on the door. Then she turned around and slowly moved away. It was only then she realized that tears were running down her cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

While Mrs Hudson was bustling in the kitchen, eager to make some tea, John had read the letter over and over again. Well, letter… just nine words. Nine simple words, which shook his world to its foundations. He looked at the little lad lying next to him on the couch, sound asleep again. He did not see any resemblance, but then again, what did he know about babies? Did they resemble their parents when they were born? This baby could be anyone’s. And yet he knew it was true. He just knew. 

The sheet of paper trembled in his right hand and with his left he rubbed his eyes. John had never thought he would return here. In fact, he never had until now. Although she initially had intended to give Sherlock’s equipment away, Mrs Hudson had left the flat upstairs untouched. She had not had the heart to let it to somebody else, so it had remained unoccupied for the past six month. Six month… He did not remember how he had spent the time with his friend, his best friend, his... with Sherlock being gone. Gone. Away. He still refused to think of Sherlock being dead, though many long talks with his therapist had made him come closer to accepting the unbearable truth. He had tried to start a new life, he even had called Sarah, asking her to take him back, just professionally, of course, as he really needed a job. He had tried as hard as possible to get over everything – and now there was this little human being, huddled in a white blanket, sleeping on Mrs Hudson’s couch, who vaulted him right back into it all…

The thoughts were swirling inside his head and he did not know what to make of them. Before he came to any conclusion Mrs Hudson left the kitchen with a tray. She put it on the small table in front of him.

“Here, my dear, have a sip.” As always, Mrs Hudson’s solution for everything was a good cup of hot tea. John smiled and blinked away his tears. It felt like he had come home after six months. 

Silently they emptied their cups. Then Mrs Hudson began to speak. “John, I am really sorry to have called you this early in the morning but I thought you should know…”

“It’s okay, Mrs Hudson…”

“I was thinking of calling the police…” she went on. “But then I imagined this could be another case… maybe someone who didn’t know… but, who doesn’t know… it’s been in all the papers…” She broke off and started to sob. 

John felt guilty. Apparently Mrs Hudson missed Sherlock as much as he did, but he had never bothered asking her how she was feeling. Not once in six months. Had he really been this ignorant? His eyes filled with tears again. 

Together they cried a little and grieved for Sherlock. Then John cleared his throat. 

“Mrs Hudson, this is no _case_ …” He pointed to the little boy. “This is Sherlock’s son.”

***

Mrs Hudson immediately stopped crying. “But John, what are you saying?” 

She looked at the little boy who had just opened his eyes. Pale blue eyes. As pale as Sherlock’s? She wasn’t sure. And then she remembered she had once read that every baby was born with blue eyes. That was no clue. Sherlock’s son? She looked again, trying to find any resemblance. But the little thing looked just like any other baby to her. Sherlock’s son? Really? The mere thought was ridiculous. Never in all the years she had known Sherlock had she heard him speak of a woman, let alone had she seen him with one. Apart from that poor girl from St. Bart’s, who was so in love with him. Sherlock’s son? John could not be serious. 

“You’re becoming just like him, speaking in riddles and all…” 

He shook his head. 

„How do you know?” 

Slowly John handed her the letter. She reached out for the paper and took it, though she already knew what was written on it. Nine simple words. 

_My name is Hamish. Take good care of me._

How on earth had John made that deduction?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Here you go!_
> 
> _Thanks to *Grindylow*, my consulting plot queen!_

Having played the baby-sitter for her little nephews several times, Molly was the one closest to an expert in terms of babies. It was half past eight when she arrived at Baker Street, with two shopping bags full of baby equipment. She was looking good. New hair, a little shorter, with highlights. She had put on a bit of weight (though John couldn’t tell if it was 2,5 pounds or 3 or even more), but it suited her. Neither John nor Mrs Hudson had seen her since Sherlock’s funeral, and she herself had not been eager to get in touch with them as well. John wondered if she had a new boyfriend, and could not help feeling a pang of jealousy. Substitutional jealousy. How come she was happy when he had been devastated for half a year? Had she not been _in love_ with Sherlock? Had she got over it all that quickly? 

He watched her warily as she put down her bags. 

When she looked up she seemed uneasy. "John, Mrs Hudson, good to see you," she muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "How... How's the hip?" 

"Oh, it's still atrocious, but nevermind," replied Mrs Hudson. “We’ve got more important things to do.”

"So where... Where is he?"

There was no need in asking, as the baby's piercing cries were echoing through the hallway. Mrs Hudson stepped aside and let Molly enter the living room. John followed her. 

She rushed to the crying baby on the couch, lifted it up and started to rock it softly in her arms. John watched her, not sure what to feel about that sight.

“Shush, my little boy, shush” she whispered soothingly and stroked the tiny head with the dark wispy hair. “Are you hungry? – He must be hungry,” she said, turning to Mrs Hudson, “would you please prepare him a meal?” She pointed to one of her shopping bags, which Mrs Hudson took to the kitchen. A little later she returned with a baby bottle. 

***

It felt strange to be back again. She lifted her eyes from the baby in her arms, which was sucking eagerly on the bottle, and looked around the room with its old-fashioned furnishing. She had never been at Mrs Hudson’s, she realized, only at the upper storey were John and Sherlock had shared their flat. The last time she had been there was almost one year ago, on Christmas Eve. Sherlock had been rude to her, saying such horrible things… but he also had kissed her on the cheek. She blushed at the thought. It would have become such a nice evening, if they hadn’t found that woman. Dead. She had never seen Sherlock like this, in the morgue, when he looked at the body. And afterwards he had never been the same. She had always wondered who that woman was. Why she had meant so much to Sherlock. Why Sherlock did not care for her, Molly. 

And yet he had trusted in her. He had told her that she _did_ count. Over the past months she had repeatedly enjoyed the fact that it had been her who had helped him disappear, and it had filled her with joy and pride. She did not know Sherlock’s whereabouts, but he had let her know he was safe. Twice someone had caught her in front of St. Bart’s, when she was heading home after work, and had delivered a message. Apparently Sherlock’s homeless network was still in good order. 

Had they also told him how John was? When she had last seen him, at the funeral of some drug courier who had been shot in the attempt to outsmart his string puller, John had been close to a breakdown, believing it was Sherlock’s body that was lying in that plain, dark coffin. It had almost broken her heart seeing him like this, but no matter how hard she’d tried, she was unable to cry. She wasn’t grieving, she was glad. She couldn’t bear the sight of John, stepping forward to the grave, supported by Mrs Hudson and Inspector Lestrade on either side, so she quietly turned around and left the cemetery. After that, they had never met again. John had tried to phone her once, but she hadn’t called back. 

And now she was here again, at Baker Street. Had she known who called she would probably not have answered, but she didn’t recognise Mrs Hudson’s number when she was cramped in the bus on her way to work and her phone rang. The next station she got off the bus, listening disbelievingly to Mrs Hudson’s tale. A baby on the doorstep. How dramatic. And on top of it all Sherlock’s son. No way! She tried to imagine those two, Mrs Hudson and John, how they were trying to deal with a baby. She couldn’t. And so, out of a sense of obligation – and out of curiosity – she agreed to come. 

She looked at John, who was sitting opposite her, the rings under his eyes darker than she had remembered, and then at Mrs Hudson. They both watched her as she fed the boy.

She looked down at him. He was a cute baby, pretty as a picture, but she wasn’t sure if he resembled Sherlock at all. Maybe he was just too little. 

“So… you think he’s Sherlock’s son?” she asked. She still didn’t want to believe it. If it was true, if this really was Sherlock’s son - how on earth did it happen? No, she didn’t need anyone to tell her about birds and bees. She just wanted to know who was the lucky one who had spent the night with Sherlock. Or the day. Or many days? Was it just an affair? Or had they even been _in love_? Did they… did they live together, now, in Sherlock’s hiding place? Were they forced to get rid of the baby as it would have complicated matters? Apart from that woman in the morgue Sherlock had never cared for any female person – so who was she, the one who had made her way into his heart – or maybe just into his bed? She bit her lips.

John pointed at the piece of paper that had slipped onto the floor and was lying close to her right foot. 

“But it doesn’t say so,” she protested. “There’s nothing in it besides his name.”

“He is,” John answered in a low voice. “I know…”

“But how do you know from… erm … not the letter?”


	5. Chapter 5

What in the world had made him say that?  


It had flashed through his mind, and before he could even think about it, it was out of his mouth.  


Now he was sitting in Mrs Hudson’s living room, staring at a baby that was supposedly the son of his late best friend, regretting a sentence from nearly a year ago, wishing he had kept it to himself.  


*** 

The tension in the room was perceptible almost physically. How they were creeping up on each other, always trying to outwit each other, always concerned about not letting each other know their mutual attraction. Was it possible that he had noticed it before those two had even realized? The sly smile… first on her face, then on his. The looks they exchanged. He was not sure what made him angrier. The fact that somebody was flirting with Sherlock? The fact that Sherlock was flirting with somebody? Or that they both were acting as if he was not there. If he had got up and gone out, would they have noticed? Probably not. Even without the confusing presence of a woman Sherlock sometimes didn’t notice that John was away. Once he had kept talking to him although he was in Dublin…  


How close they were standing together.  


“Oh you’re rather good.”  


“You’re not so bad.”  


He had to do something. Say something. Anything just to make them remember that he was still there. He didn’t want to witness how she flung herself in his arms. He really didn’t want to see them making out.  


“Hamish.”  


They both turned towards him, and suddenly he felt so out of place as he had never felt before. Why did he say that? He didn’t know. They stared at him and he felt the need to explain himself.  


“John Hamish Watson. Just if you’re looking for Baby names.”  


He was just making it worse. Neither of them said a word and he wished he could simply disappear. How childish he was, blurting out his jealousy like this. But at least he had broken the spell.  


*** 

He remembered the scene vividly.  


And apparently _she_ had remembered it, too.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly looked at him without understanding.  Of course. How would she know? She hadn’t been there. She probably wasn’t even aware of the fact that Hamish was his middle name. John Hamish Watson. It had been virtually he himself who had given the boy his name. Oh, how he wished he hadn’t said that.  

 “And who’s the mother?” Molly interrupted his thoughts.

He couldn’t tell her. He knew how jealous she had been of _the woman_ … He really didn’t want to break her heart by telling her. This boy was Sherlock’s and Irene Adler’s son. There was no need for him to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that. But Sherlock was dead, and Irene… Irene should have been dead as well. He tried to recall the day when he had met Mycroft outside Speedy’s Bar on that rainy day. It must have been in March, he thought. Mycroft had told him that Irene had been dead for about two month. It didn’t make sense. Or maybe it did…

“John, are you okay?” Molly asked.

He looked up.

“What? Well, erm… yes… Molly, what do you reckon how old he is?” he asked, not responding to her first question.

“I’m not sure. He’s not a newborn, given his weight… ” she began.  “He’s watching our movement, he smiles, he can lift his head for a short moment…” She broke off.

How pathetic, John thought. They were just mentioning the obvious. What would Sherlock have noticed? Sherlock… Again his thoughts wandered off.

“I’d say he’s about two months old. Give or take a week.” Molly deduced.

Two months… Born in October… Conceived… – he calculated –  in January?

He slammed his hand on the table so hard that the tea cups on it jumped and little Hamish started to cry with shock.  Molly looked equally startled.

“I… I am sorry,” he murmured.  He hesitated for a moment, then he got up and went to the door.

“Where are you going?” Mrs Hudson asked reproachfully.

“Out. I need some air.”


	7. Chapter 7

He walked through the streets of London without knowing where to go.  So many thoughts were swirling in his head and he was hoping that the cold November air would help him to get them sorted. He was not quite sure if he was drawing the right conclusions – he thought of Sherlock, who had always mocked his feeble attempts in the art of deduction – but right now he couldn’t think of any other possibility: It must have happened the day they had found Irene in their flat.  When he’d had enough of the two of them he had finally done what he had been thinking about earlier and had left them to themselves. It must have happened then. Irene, freshly from the shower, her hair still wet, dressed only in Sherlocks blue dressing gown… Well at least she was wearing something, unlike the first time they had met… but still, he had to admit, she had looked sexy that night. Sherlock must have noticed that, too. He imagined Irene coming over to Sherlock’s chair, loosening the belt of her gown so that it slipped slightly down her shoulder, bending over him… John suppressed the need to bang his head against some wall just to get the pictures out of his mind.

Sherlock had never talked about what had happened that night. All John knew was that Sherlock had been taken in, that he had finally got into Irene’s camera phone, and that he had left it to Mycroft to decide her fate. He had despised her from that day on… But what had happened before?

Then another thought came to John’s mind. Had Sherlock known all the time that Irene wasn’t dead? Was that why he had smiled so knowingly when he had told him she was in America? Had they been in touch? Did he even know she was pregnant?

He clenched his fist. If it had been like this, why had Sherlock never told him? He had always thought that Sherlock had trusted him, but apparently he had been wrong. How many more secrets had Sherlock taken to his grave?

***

He hadn’t planned it, but suddenly he was standing in front of the B&B he was living in since he had moved out of Baker Street. He took out his key and entered. The door to the landlady’s living room stood ajar, and he hoped he could pass unseen, but she had noticed his arrival and called out to him just as he was tiptoeing by.

“Dr Watson, when do you intend to pay your rent?” She was nothing like Mrs Hudson. Mrs MacMillan would have never made him some tea. 

He stopped and sighed.  “Tonight. You’ll have your money tonight.” Then he went upstairs to his room.

“I hope so,” he heard her calling after him.

He lay down on the bed and looked around the room. It wasn’t as shabby as the one he’d lived in after his return from Afghanistan, but still he was fed up with it. He was fed up with the unfriendly landlady and fed up with the fact that he had to eat his breakfast with different people every day. Tourists from America, Germany, Japan…

Being back in Baker Street today had made him feel confused. Yes, everything there reminded him of Sherlock, and yet he still had the strong desire to call this place home.  He could not imagine someone else living in the flat upstairs. And – another miserable try of deducing – neither could Irene. She had clearly intended to give the baby to Sherlock. That meant she didn’t know he was dead.

What now? Irene had disappeared again. He could phone Lestrade, suggest that Scotland Yard should search for her. He could phone Mycroft, let him know that his supposed thoroughness left much to be desired. In both cases it wouldn’t come to a good end for Irene, and the more he thought about it, the less he wanted that responsibility on his consciousness. He should ring Mycroft anyway. Congratulate him on the birth of his nephew.  Maybe he would want to receive custody? No. He didn’t see the government official with the stiff upper lip with a baby. He didn’t want the boy to be raised by someone who was never at home, who used to summon him to the most peculiar places instead of phoning him on his phone, who didn’t frequent Cafés but spent his time in some odd club of silence, who was still wearing his wedding ring just to appear respectable, although he had been divorced for more than seven years. And given all that he was sure that Mycroft wouldn’t want that either.

Suddenly John knew what he had to do. He took a deep breath, got up and started to pack his things. Then he went downstairs. He knocked at the door to the living room and cleared his throat. When the landlady looked up he entered and handed her an envelope.

“Mrs MacMillan, this is this month’s rent. I… I’m moving out.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Have you cleaned your room?” she asked.

But he didn’t answer; he just turned around and left the house. He was heading back to Baker Street, back to the little boy he was determined to take care of. Back to the little boy he felt connected to by the name they both shared. Hamish.


	8. Chapter 8

John was back home. Back in the upper floor of 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson still being the landlady, not the housekeeper. Everything in the flat looked exactly like it had when he had left it. The ugly wallpaper with the smiley face where Sherlock had taken his boredom out on it. Sherlock’s violin. The bookshelves. The skull. Everything was as it had been, except that he was now living here with a baby boy instead of a high-functioning sociopath; except that he was feeding baby bottles and changing diapers instead of arguing with his resourceful, dynamic, enigmatic [but late] flat mate.

Every once in a while Molly came over.  She had offered him her help, as she was more experienced and claimed that a female influence was important for Hamish. John, who had only now realized how hard it was to be a single father, was grateful for any assistance he could get. When she had a day off Molly would take care of the boy. Together they were taking long walks in the park, little Hamish in a pram. On one of these walks they met Stamford, whom John hadn't met for a couple of month. He had not only avoided Baker Street but also St. Bart’s, as well as any place that was reminding him of Sherlock. And he hadn’t been in the mood for calling him and asking him to have a drink. No wonder Stamford looked more than a little surprised when he saw his old friend and his colleague together with a baby.

"John, Molly, why didn't anybody tell me you're..."

"We're not..." John interrupted.

Mike eyed them both sceptically.

***

Molly was delighted to see John getting more and more out of his depressions. Though he looked tired - little Hamish apparently was waking him up regularly - he seemed to be happy. And she herself enjoyed being with them.  November turned into December and she continued to come over even as John had got used to his new role as a father. She had grown close to Hamish and she realized she was also growing close to John.  Sometimes she stayed for dinner. Sometimes she even stayed after they had put the boy to bed together.

It was such an evening. It was cold outside; John and Molly were sitting by the fireplace, drinking some wine. They had been talking at first, but for the past twenty or so minutes they had been just looking into the flames, dwelling on their thoughts. ‘Just like a little family’, she was thinking to herself, and as she realized she was enjoying this thought way too much she got up.

“It’s late,” she muttered and grabbed her jacket.  

John walked her down and as she was opening the front door she felt his hand on her shoulder. Slowly she turned towards him and without knowing how it happened they were kissing on the doorstep, hesitantly at first, but soon the kiss became more passionate. Suddenly she backed off.

“Well, I’d better be going,” she whispered.

***

It didn't feel right. It hadn't felt _bad_ ; on the contrary, she had enjoyed their kiss, but it just didn't feel _right_. She knew they were nothing but substitutes for Sherlock to each other. With Sherlock around she and John would have never got that close. Sherlock would have been the center of both their attention. He, or rather his absence, had brought them together.

She remembered last Christmas, when Sherlock had kissed her. It had been nothing like this, just a friendly, apologising kiss on the cheek, and yet it had felt so different. If she had to decide on the two kisses, she would choose Sherlock’s.

At the same time she was feeling terribly guilty that she knew something that John didn't. Something important.

She couldn't. She just couldn't.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Unfortunately I have spent too much time with youtube over the past few days, and I wish I hadn't watched some spoiler clips. I am getting a bit confused because of some things I won't mention here in case you haven't seen them, but it also motivates me to finish my story. I'd like to be done with it before the release of season 3, because afterwards I'd probably feel like having to rewrite everything. **But** we're coming closer to the finale... I reckon there will be 3 or 4 more chapters. Some of them are already written and I am going to publish them as soon as I have put them in the right order. Stay tuned. ;-)_   
>  _Rosemary D._

***

John stood in the doorframe and watched her as she was walking down the road.  When she had turned the corner and disappeared from view he closed the door and went back upstairs. What the hell had he been thinking when he kissed her? It had been a perfect evening, why did he spoil it? For a second it had felt like the right thing to do, that was why he’d done it, messing things up. Over the past weeks they had grown really close to each other, but he never had thought it could become more than friendship. And he had been right, now he knew.

When she had ended their kiss he understood that she was still missing Sherlock. And, to tell the truth, so was he. No, the two of them getting together would be nothing more than making up for Sherlock. He didn’t want this to be the basis for their relationship. And for the moment he didn’t even want to think about it.

He closed the flat’s door and tiptoed into Sherlock’s bedroom that had now become the nursery. For a couple of minutes he was looking down into the baby cot, watching Hamish’s regular breathing and felt a strong affection towards the little boy.  Sometimes he believed to recognize Sherlock’s features in the baby’s face. Sometimes he expected to be reminded of Irene Adler. 

Irene… He sighed. Irene was another reason why he couldn’t get involved with Molly. If they were to play family he would have to tell her who Hamish’s mother really was. And he had decided not to tell her.

Silently John left the room and sat down once more in front of the fireplace. He poured the rest of the wine into his glass and watched the dying flames. A thought came to his mind, a thought that haunted him especially at night, when Hamish was sleeping and he was alone; a thought he would have never dared think at daytime.

Irene…

Everyone had believed Irene Adler to be dead. Mycroft had assured how _thorough_ he had been this time. She had been captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi earlier this year and beheaded.  And yet she had done it again. She had fooled them all. Somehow she had managed to save her neck, had become pregnant and then disappeared magically again. He remembered Mycroft sitting opposite him at the small table at Speedy’s Bar, his slender hand with the golden ring resting on the file in front of him.

“It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me,” he had said.  

It was this sentence that kept nagging on John. If Irene had been able to fool them – if she wasn’t dead, if she had lasted at least 9 month, to give birth to that little boy, if she had managed to come back to London unseen to lay her baby on Mrs Hudson’s doorstep  – didn’t that mean that Sherlock was able to fool them all the more?

Maybe… maybe…  

John hesitated to complete that thought.

Maybe Sherlock had imitated Irene and faked his death in order to disappear. Maybe he wasn’t dead, exactly like he had asked him to.

But no… that was only wishful thinking.

But involuntarily his thoughts raced on and for a split second a vision appeared in front of his inner eye. Sherlock and Irene, both having faked their deaths, gone into hiding together. Irene pregnant, both of them looking forward to being a family. But then the baby had become an obstacle, therefore they decided to drop it here. He felt anger rising inside him.

“Get a grip,” he tried to bring himself to reason. Sherlock was dead. He had seen it with his own eyes.

He downed his wine and got up. Bed time. Just in this moment he heard Hamish whimpering in his room. Maybe he was having a bad dream, maybe he was just hungry. Either way, John had to hurry for he didn’t want the baby to start crying seriously, waking Mrs Hudson downstairs or the neighbours living wall to wall. He rushed into the room and lifted Hamish out of his cot.

“Shhh, don’t cry,” he murmured. “Don’t cry. Daddy’s here.”

He had never referred to himself as Daddy before and he didn’t know what had made him say that just now. But it felt right.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Thanks to the lovely Rachel Falkenberg for allowing me to use her B &B experience..._ :-*

While listening to Mrs Hudson’s tale Hamish had finished his tea and the sandwiches. He wasn't crying anymore, he just looked a little incredulous.

"So, you know, one day your Daddy decided he really wanted to be your father. And your uncle didn't mind that your Daddy adopted you."

"I'm glad he didn't mind," Hamish confirmed. "Uncle Mycroft is much less fun than Dad and Daddy are. I wouldn't want to live with him."

Mrs Hudson smiled. It was because of the boy the Holmes brothers had finally buried the hatchet. But Mycroft hadn't changed much. She wouldn't want to live with him either.

“And how life goes, soon after your Daddy had adopted you your father came back,” Mrs Hudson went on. “It was a strange time, really. Took them quite a while to sort things out. But I think it's their business to tell you about that."

Hamish nodded.

“May I have some sweets?”

She smiled. Apparently the boy was his old self again. She knew that John put great stress on a healthy diet but once in a while she liked to spoil the child. And Hamish knew that Auntie Hudson always had some chocolate in her cupboard. She handed him a chocolate bar.

"Just the one, dear," she pointed out. "Haven't you got any homework to do?"

"Homework's boring," he complained.

But finally he sat down at the kitchen table and opened his book on planets.

***

After finishing his homework he was allowed to watch _Crap_ Telly. Just a little. Normally he enjoyed it, but Mrs Hudson noticed that his mind was elsewhere. Of course, he had a lot to think about. When about nine o'clock in the evening they heard the front door the boy jumped up and ran into the hallway.

"Daddy! Dad!"

He didn't mind that they both were covered in mud and dirt. He hugged Sherlock and then turned to John and wrapped his arms around his waist. John lifted him up.

"Boy, you're getting quite heavy," he laughed and passed him over to his father. Hamish wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s neck and reached out for John with the other one, pulling him towards him. For a moment they were standing cuddling all three.

"I'm glad you're back. I've missed you," Hamish said.

"So you told him," Sherlock remarked, looking at Mrs Hudson who had followed Hamish into the hallway and was standing in the door watching the little family reunion.

"Well, a little bit,” she admitted. “Not that I know much. But I had to. He was all bewildered and crying.” And after a short pause she added: “I didn't expect you tonight. I thought you were sleeping over."

"Solved the case in less than two hours," Sherlock explained. "Turned out to be a six. Wasn't worth my leaving the house."

Mrs Hudson didn't reply that they could have stayed anyway. She was glad they were home, Hamish needed them now. And John didn't tell her that maybe they would have stayed if the owner of the only B&B in the village hadn't claimed to be fully booked when she had seen them in their dirty clothes.

"I guess the three of you will have a nice little chat tonight," she said, smiling at them.

***

She stepped out of the Jumbo Jet and took a deep breath. London air.  Maybe she was just imagining it, but it smelled different than the air of Baltimore, where she had been living for the past 6 years. Baltimore. Oh, irony of fate.

Charlotte put her hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, Rose? Strange to be back again?”

She nodded. Rose Fulbright. She had never got quite used to that name. Sometimes she was standing in front of the mirror, studying her face, saying that name aloud just in order to internalise her new identity.

While she was waiting for their luggage Charlotte fetched a trolley. And then they finally stepped out of Heathrow airport into the fine London rain.


	11. Chapter 11

Almost every street, every corner, every square they were passing by awakened memories in her. This was where the red-haired Crown prosecutor lived, who had engaged her for his wife. In this bar she'd had lunch with the famous architect, who had insisted on meeting her on neutral territory before visiting her at her place. Here in that shop she had bought her precious camera phone...

Suddenly she felt Charlotte’s hand on hers. Rose tore her eyes away from the car window and looked at her. I am sorry, she thought, smiling miserably. You have lived with me for three years now, and yet you don’t know anything about me, nor you never will.

Of course she had told Charlotte that there once had been a man. _The_ man. That there was a child she had given away at the age of six weeks. But she had refused to go into detail and Charlotte had never pressed her on it. Of her former life as Irene Adler Charlotte knew nothing.

She squeezed her hand without saying anything and turned once more to the window. For a brief moment she wondered how Kate was doing. Certainly she had found someone else. From the day they had been attacked by the Americans things had never been the same between them. Kate would have never admitted but she had never liked the idea of sharing Irene with her customers. And after she had recovered from the attack she had decided to maintain their relationship on a merely professional level. Irene had been too sherlocked to mind and a few weeks later Kate had moved out.

She smiled, lost in thoughts. No, she hadn’t been a nice person back then. Was she now? She didn’t know.

Finally the taxi stopped. They paid the cabbie and he lifted their suitcases out of the car boot. Then they moved into the hotel room they had booked for the weeks to come. Years ago, with her income as The Woman, she could have afforded a suite, now they had to go for a more humble residence.

“Well, it’s quite nice”, Charlotte remarked, turning on the spot and looking around the room. Then she went to the window and opened it. “Cool. You can see London Eye from here.”

Rose was standing motionless in the middle of the room and didn’t reply.

“Will we have a ride on it?” Charlotte went on excited.

“We’ll see.”

Charlotte turned around and looked at her lover with a sudden insight. “Oh darling, I am sorry. We are not on a sightseeing trip, are we?”  

Rose shook her head. With a few steps Charlotte came closer and wrapped her arms around her. “I am sorry, darling, I am sorry,” she repeated, kissing her on the cheeks that were wet with tears. “When are you going?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No thanks, love. It’s something I have to do on my own.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Whew! I don't know, this chapter has been really hard to write... And I am probably going to rewrite parts of it sooner or later (I know myself, I am almost never satisfied...). So please let me know what you think of it._  
> 
> _Thanks again to my consultant plotty for some really good ideas._
> 
>  
> 
> ***

They were sitting on the living room sofa, the cocktail table was laden with Chinese food, but apart from their usual game (Predicting Fortune Cookies) they had other things on their minds than eating. Hamish was snuggled up between John and Sherlock, asking question upon question. John tried to answer them the best he could – and tried to make Sherlock join the conversation. He had remained exceptionally tight-lipped throughout the evening.

“Who is my mummy?” was the first thing Hamish wanted to know. “Auntie Hudson said that Daddy knew but that he wouldn’t tell anyone. “

“The Woman,” replied Sherlock.

“Umm, her name’s Irene Adler,” specified John. The boy was entitled to know what his mother was called and they had kept that knowledge from him long enough.

Hamish couldn’t keep still, he sat up, then he knelt on the sofa and turned to Sherlock. “But how can you be my Dad and that Irene woman my mum? The kids at school say a man and a woman must be married…”

“Married…” Sherlock snorted disparagingly. “A single sexual encounter is sufficient for conception…”

“Sherlock!” John interrupted sharply and gave him the not-good-look.

“What!?”

“He’s a bit too young, don’t you think?” John hissed, and then turned back to Hamish. “They don’t have to be married. They don’t even have to be in love.” He shot a glance at Sherlock who avoided his eyes.

“You were not in love?” Hamish repeated, sitting down again. “Does that mean she doesn’t love me either? Is that why she left me?” He looked quite sad.

Immediately John regretted that he had mentioned love. "No, Hamish… She… she loves you very much. She left you _because_ she loves you. But, you see, Irene was in trouble. She had to hide. And she couldn’t take you with her.”

“And where is she now?”

John didn’t have the faintest idea, but he couldn’t tell Hamish. The boy expected an answer, he expected his Daddies to have an answer to everything.  “She’s… she’s in America," he made up, and it felt like a déja vu. He didn’t know how right he was.

Having a mum in America was apparently an appealing thought. “Cool. Can we go and visit her there?"

"Umm..." John said, not sure what to think of that idea. He clearly didn't want to see Irene again. He had never liked her, but he didn’t want to admit that in front of Hamish. On top of that he didn't know how or where to find her.

"Well, she's gone into hiding. The point of hiding is that nobody can find you," he tried to explain.

"But Dad can find her, can't you, Dad?" He looked hopefully at Sherlock.

Sherlock had the “Of-course-I-can”-look on his face, but before he could answer, John shook his head slightly. He didn’t want Sherlock to raise false hopes in the boy. “We’ll see,” he just said.

Again Hamish seemed a bit disappointed, as if he didn’t want to give up on the idea of going to America. But he was too curious, so he kept asking.

“And is she beautiful, my mum?” He nodded, as if he was giving himself the answer.

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. Sherlock just shrugged. Not good, John thought and cast Sherlock another look. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Hamish, she is very beautiful.”

Hamish beamed. “I would really like to see her,” he pondered. “Have you got a photo?”

John shook his head but Sherlock sat up. “Maybe we can find some old pictures on the internet. She had a richly illustrated website back then…”

“Sherlock!!!”

“What?!”

“The website’s been offline for more than six years now. We. Won’t. Find. Anything.” John really hoped that Sherlock understood what he was trying to tell him.

Hamish looked at Sherlock, then at John, and then at Sherlock again. As neither of them said anything more on the topic he fired off his next question.

“And how did you meet her, Dad?”

“I had a bleeding cheek and she was completely n-“

“It’s time for bed, Hamish,” John interrupted before the topic could become even more delicate. “It’s late, and you have to go to school tomorrow. When you’re back we’ll have lots of time for talking, okay?”

Hamish suppressed a yawning. “I’m not tired,” he lied.

“Yes, you are. Everyone can see that, not only your Dad… So please change and brush your teeth.”

Reluctantly Hamish went into the bathroom, but he left the door open as if he was afraid that his Daddies could vanish as soon as they were out of sight.

John watched him. He knew exactly how Hamish was feeling. The boy was so curious, he wanted to know everything, but he couldn’t tell him. After all, he was just a kid and had to be protected. And he had sworn to protect him when he had adopted him. He was reminded of himself, of the time when Sherlock had returned. He had asked him how he had survived, where he had been, who had known, who had helped him, what he had been doing all the time… He had had so many questions, and Sherlock had only answered so few. It had been frustrating.

But maybe Sherlock had been protecting him as well. Family, friends, lovers… sometimes you just have to protect the ones you love, you care for.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter has been slumbering on my computer for some weeks and originally I intended to go over it again, but apparently I am too busy with my work lately, so I decided to share it with you now. Have fun._

John got up, cleared the table and put the wrappings of the food in the bin. “Really, Sherlock, always takeaways. We should bother cooking more often,” he sighed.

“I don’t bother eating, so why should I bother cooking?” Sherlock replied. “Besides, we agreed on ‘No severed limbs in the fridge’, isn’t that enough?”

John had a slightly different view, but he said nothing. In a way Sherlock was right. Tonight they wouldn’t have had the time for cooking. They almost hadn’t had time for eating, busy as they were answering Hamish’s questions.

In that instant the boy left the bathroom. Dressed in his favourite pyjamas he came into the kitchen and clung to John, who lifted him up. “Are you ready for bed? Did you brush your teeth?”

“No… I didn’t find the toothpaste.”

John sighed and carried him back to the bathroom. “It’s here,” he said, and handed him the toothpaste, that was standing on its usual spot. Hamish took the tube and squeezed some of its content onto his toothbrush. Then he looked up at John.

“I don’t want to sleep,” he sulked. “I want to stay with you and Dad.”

“We're here," replied John.

"And you won't go away?" Hamish squeaked as if he was about to cry.

"Of course not. We're here and we will never leave you."

He knelt down beside him and took him in his arms.

Eventually Hamish had brushed his teeth and John led him into his room. Sherlock joined them silently.

“I’ve got one more question,”Hamish began as John tucked him in. “Just one. Nothing about Mummy. Something else…”

John gave in. “Okay. One question.”

“Daddy, what did you do when you found out that Dad was not dead?”

He hadn’t expected that question, and for a brief moment he was stunned. He looked up. Sherlock was standing in the doorframe and made an involuntary gesture as if he wanted to cover his nose, but then he grinned overtly. John took a deep breath and said: “Well, at first I was very angry because he had lied to me for so long. But finally I was very…” He inhaled deeply. “…glad that he was back…”

“I’m glad, too.” Hamish said. “I just can’t imagine how life would be without Dad.”

Much less trouble sometimes, John thought and smiled. But he didn’t want it any other way.

“You’re right. We all were very sad while your Dad was away. Me, Auntie Hudson, Auntie Molly, Uncle Mycroft…” Sherlock made a noise that could have been either coughing or scoffing but John decided to ignore it, “…and now that he’s back no one can imagine him ever being gone…” Everything as it was, Sherlock was the centre of attention. John didn't want to think about that. He hugged Hamish and kissed him on the forehead. "Sleep now. I love you."

"I love you too, Daddy."

As John got up he saw that Hamish was reaching out for Sherlock. Quickly he stepped aside to make space for him. He knew that Sherlock wasn't good at "feelings" so he didn’t want to spoil the moment and left the room quietly.

"And I love you, Dad," he heard Hamish say, and as Sherlock didn’t reply immediately the boy asked "Do you love me, too?"

John hoped with all his heart that Sherlock was giving the right answer. Just get it over with, he thought. He didn't want to eavesdrop but he just couldn't turn away from the door.

Then he heard Sherlock’s voice. "You're a ten."

It was not quite what he had hoped for, but probably the most emotional answer Sherlock was capable of. And apart from the words he heard something else, in Sherlock’s voice, and it almost made him melt away. It was barely perceptible, and someone who didn’t know him that well wouldn’t have noticed. But it was definitely there: Affection. Sentiment.

"Cool. And Mummy, when you met her, what was she?"

In spite of himself John smiled. Hamish had tricked them into answering another question about Irene.

"Well, your mother... She messed things up a bit. Could have been much easier with her. But she was definitely... brainy."

John frowned at that answer. But he didn't have the time to think about it, because Hamish was asking another question.

"And Daddy, what's Daddy? Is he a ten, too?"

Sherlock lowered his voice conspiratorially as if he knew John was listening. Well, probably he did know. And then he said something that sounded like "He’s a one." Hamish sniggered at that answer and John heard Sherlock join in.

"Funny, since when does he use sarcasm?" John wondered.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter might not be what you expected - but then, you're not alone. ;-)_

When Sherlock came out of Hamish’s room John was sitting in one of the living room chairs.  

"Is he asleep?" John asked.

"Not yet, but he will be soon," Sherlock replied and was about to go downstairs.

"Wait," John interrupted. "We'd better stay here for a while. He mustn't think we're leaving him."

"But we aren't," Sherlock said, sincerely surprised at the mere thought.

"Please."

Sherlock sat down and started talking about today’s case. How the solution should have been obvious to him at first glance and how come he hadn’t noticed it was only a six, no, come to think of it, a five. John knew that Sherlock didn’t need him to answer so he dwelled on his own thoughts. Tonight’s events had shown him once more how much he loved the boy. He had watched him grow, had watched his first steps, heard him speak his first words; he had taken care of him when he was sad or ill. On his first day at school he had been a proud father. All in all he knew him as well as a father could possibly know his son. And all the years he had successfully tried to condone the fact that Irene Adler had something to do with it all. Now he couldn’t anymore. He had to face it, now that they had been talking about it. God, was he jealous? No, he tried to convince himself. He just wanted to know. What had happened back then? What had been going on between Sherlock and Irene? When? Where? And how?

***

She didn’t wonder why they hadn’t taken her phone. Somehow she had taken it for granted. And as she was kneeling down, knowing that these were going to be the last minutes of her life, she felt the strong desire to say goodbye to Sherlock. There were so many things she regretted, not just because she was facing death. She hadn’t played fair. In fact, in the end she hadn’t been playing at all anymore. No wonder Sherlock had had no intention of sparing her from punishment. She would never forget the look on his face when he handed her camera phone to his posh brother. She would have expected contempt. But he almost seemed indifferent. She had begged – only once – then she had resigned herself to her fate. And she had been right. She hadn’t lasted six months. She had lasted no more than three weeks. Without her protection one thing had led to another and she had ended up in Pakistan, kidnapped by terrorists and sentenced to death without any trial.

She took out her phone which she had kept under her chador and started to text. “Goodbye Mr Holmes. I am sorry –”

She wanted to apologize for having played with Sherlock’s feelings. But then she corrected herself. Who was the one with feelings? He had never had any feelings for her. In the end he had turned out to be as rational and unfeeling as she had always imagined him to be and she hadn’t been able to crack his hard shell, just the way Sherlock hadn’t been able to get into her locked phone for six months. The double game she had played hadn’t worked out and she had gained neither money nor his appreciation.

One of the henchmen stepped over to her and made her hurry up. She tried to think of something else to write, something witty, something with the word “dinner” in it, something that wouldn’t let him know in which bad situation she had got herself into. But nothing came to her mind. The henchman was getting impatient. So she just deleted the last three words.

“Goodbye Mr Holmes”

SEND

When she handed over the phone her heart was racing and she could hardly breathe. The moment had come. She didn’t pray; she didn’t have any hope to get out of this. She just wanted it to be over quickly. And she was afraid it would hurt. She closed her eyes.

Then suddenly there was this familiar sound. The last time she had heard that sound, it had meant that Sherlock was around, that he had heard everything she had said to John. This time… It couldn’t be. Sherlock couldn’t be around. She looked up and the first thing she saw was a pair of pale green-blue eyes…

“When I say run, run!”

Her heart leapt at the sight of him but all she managed was a faint smile. Then she got ready to run.

She had no idea what she was running into.

***

It was not the way she had expected. Or, to be exact, it was neither the one way she had imagined it to be nor the other. She had spent quite a lot of time on thinking about how it was going to be, and she had ended up with two different scenarios. One of them she had called _The Woman and the Virgin_. And it implied that kind of power play that had started months ago and that she was more than willing to continue on another level. Preferably horizontal. The other version was untitled, because she didn't allow herself often to dwell on that fantasy. It contradicted her self-conception as a professional, as The Woman and as a lesbian. This version featured Sherlock Holmes as a man who was extraordinarily skilled in the art of seduction (what a difference one letter makes…) and who knew exactly what she wanted. Anyway, in her imagination it had always been kind of planned. One of them had always been in control. And now she was lying next to him, still breathing heavily, and she wondered if it was possible that they both had lost control completely.

It must have been because of adrenaline or endorphin or some other dangerous combination of hormones. It must have been the thrill of being alive that had made her heart race like that. It must have been the joy of realizing that it had been Sherlock, of all people, who had come to her rescue. So in the very instant when he had pushed her inside that small hostel room that he somehow had arranged in advance she turned to him and kissed him, pressing him against the door through which they had just entered a moment ago. She didn't know what had got into her, but to her great surprise he responded. Seconds later they were ripping each other’s clothes off. They were all sweaty and dusty having just escaped their pursuers but they didn’t bother with taking a shower. They ended up on the slightly too narrow bed doing what they should have done months before.

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him. His clear eyes were studying her as well. F***ing hormones. She wanted to touch him and reached out for his bare chest, but he gripped her wrist, stopping her movement.

“Get dressed,” he said. “There’s a driver waiting outside, he will take you to the airport.”

 _That_ was definitely not what she had expected.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's been more then 10 months since I started this and I just felt I had to finish it._   
>  _Enjoy!_

His satchel on his back he left the school, eager to get home. He hoped that Dad and Daddy hadn’t left for another case. There were so many things he wanted to talk about, he just didn’t want to wait until tonight. Passing the gate of the school yard he looked around. An ancient Lady was walking her little white dog. A woman was sitting on the bench on the other side of the street. In the little park nearby children were chasing pigeons. He tried to observe – not just see – as his Dad had taught him, but he still hadn’t got the hang of it entirely.

He didn’t have the time for practicing, because in that moment someone grabbed his satchel and held him back.

“Hey, Freak!”

He slipped the satchel off his shoulders and turned around. Colin Moran and Cedric James were grinning at him maliciously. But this time he was prepared. Now that he knew the truth about his parents they couldn’t take him by surprise.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Is the Freak going home to his freaky family?” taunted Cedric.

“Or will he be just sitting on the doorstep, waiting for someone to pick him up?” added Colin and they both roared with laughter.

“Freak, I’ll show you something. _This_ …” Cedric pointed to the other side of the street, “is a woman. I guess you’ve never seen one.”

Hamish closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t object that Mrs. Finnigan, their teacher, was a woman as well, because that was not the point.

“I know what a woman is,” he just said. “And I do have a mother, believe it or not. And I have a Daddy who loves me and a Dad who thinks I’m a ten. My Mummy gave me to them because she cares for me. I may not know her, but I know that she’s there, somewhere, and that she did the right thing. What about you?”

Breathless he waited, not sure if they were going to punch him again. For a moment the boys were quiet, as if they were wondering if their parents loved them just as much. Then they looked up, eyed each other and with a nod of his head Colin made them push off.

Hamish was relieved. He hadn’t expected them to give in that easily. But he wouldn’t have known what else to say if they hadn’t. He bent down and picked up his satchel, preparing to go home.

„Hamish.“

As he heard the female voice calling his name he spun around and almost bumped into a woman. It was the one who had been sitting on the bench before, he noticed. Now she was standing right behind him. For how long had she been standing there?

“How… how do you know my name?” he asked hesitantly.

“The other boys called it, don’t you remember?” she answered.

The lady looked down at him and smiled. Hamish was getting nervous. He must not talk to strangers, Daddy had told him more than once.

“Oh, okay,” he said, unconvinced. “But I have to go now. My father’s waiting for me.” He turned away and was about to go.

“Hamish,” the stranger repeated. There was something in her voice that made him stop and look up at her. Brown curly hair falling down on her shoulders, clear blue eyes, red lips. She was quite beautiful.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to tell you I’m proud of you”, she went on. “The way you defended your fathers, and … your mother… that was courageous.” She smiled again. “You’re a brave boy.” Her voice was a bit shaky and she looked away. Then she reached out her hand with the short, unpolished nails as if to tousle his hair but withdrew it immediately.

“Well, thank you,” Hamish replied anxiously, “but I really have to go now.”

But before he went off he looked at her again. Daddy had told him not to talk to strangers, he knew. But something in her voice, in her face, in her eyes told him that the woman was no stranger at all…

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ THE END *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Well, I hope you liked my little story. As there were some ideas that didn't end up in it I decided to add them as some kind of deleted scenes. So if you like to know what would happen if Irene visited Baker Street, check out the next page. :-)_


	16. Outtakes and Deleted Scenes (not a proper Chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little collection of deleted scenes and fragments of dialogue which came to my mind while writing but didn’t end up in the actual story.

 

John: Sherlock should be home any moment. Would you … ehm… would you like to stay for Dinner?

Irene: You’ve got no idea…

 

***

 

Irene: Congratulations. So you finally ended up together. Was about time…

John: We’re not…

Irene: Yes, you are. Look at you. Like an old couple. I bet you still argue about who is going to bring out the waste or who’s doing the shopping.

John: ‘Course we’re arguing, but we’ve always been. That doesn’t mean … I mean… We’ve got separate bedrooms.

Irene: I see. Makes things more exciting.

John: We’re not sleeping together.

Irene: You should, then.

John: Miss Adler… or whatever you’re called now… I’m still not gay. Oh, gosh, I’m not discussing that with you….

 

***

 

Hamish (looking up at Irene): Are you my Mummy?

 

***

John: So, I’m a _one_ , huh?

Sherlock: What?

John: A one. You said I was a one. You said so. I never expected to be a ten. But then, I thought you’d appreciate me a bit more…

Sherlock (sighs theatrically): John. You eavesdrop but you don’t _listen_. As always. (turning away, inaudible:) You’re _The_ One.


End file.
